


Who Would Forebear It?

by azryal



Series: His Master's Hand [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: D/s themes, Dubious Consent, M/M, Master/Slave, Mild S&M, Slave Training
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-20
Updated: 2013-06-20
Packaged: 2017-12-15 14:31:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/850639
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azryal/pseuds/azryal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's only been a few days since Athelstan has come to the homestead. Ragnar gives him a short lesson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who Would Forebear It?

Athelstan was grateful for the work given him. His first full day he’d been exhausted and he had been left to sleep it through. Though he’d woken often with dreams of blood and fire, he was always surprised to note the comfort in which he found himself. A clean pallet, a blanket and fur, and a dark corner that offered a modicum of privacy; these were things he’d not expected. There was always a hand there to rub his head and send him back to sleep.

Since that day, however, he’d been expected to be what he was. A slave.  

He didn’t mind the hardship of farming and tending animals. The journey had offered him too much time to think. To remember. The work made him tired enough to sleep through the dreams. And the sounds of his…owners….in their bed. It kept his mind occupied during the day so that he did not dwell on his former life, his former schedule. He did not think of mass or song or even the quiet meals he once shared while he was busy toiling with animals and planting. He had blisters on his palms but they bothered him little for they kept him focused on his task, much the same as his aching fingers had done.

Work was cleansing. It was pure. So, except for the rope that still wrapped around his neck, Athelstan found peace in the honest, back breaking labor. He thought only about the field and the tool and nothing else. He thought so hard, worked so diligently, that he did not hear approaching steps until they were upon him. With a gasp he turned, startled, and fell backwards over the weeding rake he held.

Ragnar stood over him, against the sun. The brilliant light surrounded him and made it hard to see, but Athelstan knew the silhouette. Would know it eternally. He squinted up, trying to see what the man’s face showed of his mood. It was often the only clue he had as to what was in store for him.

He heard a chuckle and it seemed a happy one. He was relieved.

“You scare like a rabbit, priest,” Ragnar said, squatting beside him.

Athelstan’s mouth worked, for he knew the man expected some sort of reply. Ragnar did not accept silence as an answer from his slave. Unless it was expressly ordered.

He found words and made them pleasant. “Yes, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?” Athelstan could see his face now. He was not smiling, but he did not have _the look_. “What are you sorry for?’

The look, as Athelstan called it, was a dangerous gleam in those ice blue eyes, a peculiar smirk on lips full and soft, and a tilt to his head that would freeze Athelstan in an instant. One could be present without the others and all would be well. Combined, though, and it was a sure sign that Athelstan would be put to the test once more.

It was just the tilt now, as if Ragnar was considering what the answer to his question might be.

“For being clumsy. For falling on your seedlings,” he said, softly, averting his eyes.

Ragnar reached out, flicked the dirty, ragged edge of his robe up. “You wear this too long. It tripped you more than the rake.”

“It is what is proper-” Athelstan began but noticed that Ragnar’s eyes were still cast down towards his feet. He looked and saw that the bottom of his robe had moved higher than he’d thought. Both it and his under smock were shifted up, almost to his knees. His legs looked very white where they were not smudged and caked with mud. He thought it reflected poorly on himself and felt a wash of shame. He would have apologized again, but a glance back up at Ragnar gave him chills, even in the hot sun.

Ragnar had _the look_. It was directed, surprisingly and disconcertingly, at his feet and ankles. He watched as those gleaming eyes moved up slowly, the lids lowering as they traced the curve of his calf, up to the back of his knee. They stopped at the rumpled cloth bunched up around his legs. Athelstan started to pull himself in, reeling his feet closer as one hand pushed at the robe. Ragnar’s hand was faster. It shot out and grabbed one ankle, and pulled sharp and hard enough to drag Athelstan closer.

Athelstan yelped and kicked out with his other foot. He was shoved onto his back and held there, the press of Ragnar’s weight and an icy glare rooting him to the spot. Once he was sure his slave would not move, he continued. The robe was pushed higher and Athelstan felt the sun on his knees, then his thighs.  The heat was foreign, not the cloying, humid warmth from layers of cloth on his skin but the airy, golden feel of the sun’s rays touching his skin. He breathed through his mouth, a huff and a gasp that caught Ragnar’s attention. He glanced up at Athelstan’s face, then put a hand on the inside of one thigh.

“Ra-“Athelstan tried to protest, but shock stole his words.

This was not the sun. Nor the weight of cloth. This was _Ragnar’s hand_.  His palm was rough, his fingers long enough to curl under and dig at the tips. The burn was so much… _more_. It pierced his skin and flowed like the blood racing just beneath. It warred with the cold left by the command in his eyes.

Eyes that were on his now. Without words Athelstan knew to be still. Quiet.

Ragnar swept his hand down, all the way down to curl around his ankle. His fingers could wrap around the narrow part just above it when he squeezed. Tight. He held there for a long moment and his lips quirked up when he let go. Slowly, he slid higher, stopping at the top of Athelstan’s knee. There he pressed his fingertips into the fleshy inside, hard enough to make Athelstan jerk a bit. Ragnar paid this no mind, merely hummed a little under his breath.

When he moved higher still and felt Athelstan tense beneath his hands, Ragnar smiled. “I’ve not done anything to you yet, priest.”

The ‘yet’ was worrisome.

Ragnar was watching as he worked his hand up, in between the highest point of Athelstan’s thighs. When no room was made for him, he pinched the fleshy inner top of one. Athelstan muffled his squeak, clamping his lips over it, but he did not part his legs. Ragnar pinched him again, harder.

“Please, Ragnar Lothbrok, it’s not…it’s forbidden,” Athelstan begged. “I can’t. Please.”

Eyes narrowed, Ragnar did it harder still. This time he twisted as his fingers bore down. Athelstan yelled and tried to jerk his leg away. This had the desired effect, allowing more room for Ragnar’s explorations.

“It seems you can,” was all he said.

Athelstan closed his eyes but that was worse. The pain had wound through the heat and left him breathless. Shaking. Without the stimulus his eyes provided, his mind focused on that tempest and gave him no respite. He trembled as Ragnar’s fingers slipped into the crease of this thigh and when the knuckles brushed the thin covering of his nethers, he whimpered.

There was a shift above him. Ragnar’s hands left him and a shadow appeared over his face, turning the bright red-gold behind his lids a dark red-black. He felt breath on his face but he did not open his eyes. This was good, for as soon as Ragnar put their mouths together, he would have closed them, anyway.

It was not the same gentle kiss he’d received on the walk here. This was deeper, more urgent, with teeth pressing into his lips as Ragnar sucked and bit at his tongue. Athelstan made no move to stop him but did not return the kiss, either. Until Ragnar’s fingers trailed over his thigh and gave the still throbbing spot there a warning squeeze. Athelstan whimpered again and he quite suddenly hated himself for his weakness. He felt his breath coming fast again but he moved his tongue against Ragnar’s and felt the fingers sooth and soften.

Ragnar ended the kiss. “Open your eyes, Athelstan.”

Opening them meant letting the man see everything in his soul. He shook his head as a tear escaped the corner of one to run down his temple.

The pain came quick and hard and right on the same cursed spot. He shouted. His eyes flew open.

He saw his hands clutched into fists on Ragnar’s tunic. He felt his arms pushing but Ragnar did not move.

“Lower your hands,” he barked. He pinched. “You must never deny me, never fight me. Unless I command it. My wants are your wants now, slave. Do you understand me?’

Tears ran freely now. His leg _hurt_. He lowered his hands to tangle in his belt and blinked up into Ragnar’s face. He nodded. “Yes.”

Ragnar took his mouth again, just has demanding as before. He tried as best he could, timidly answering the thrust of Ragnar’s tongue with his own. When Ragnar sucked on it, took it into his own mouth, Athelstan kept it there to trace across the man’s lower lip. He heard Ragnar moan, felt it vibrate against him, and then the kiss was over.

“Very good,” Ragnar said, briskly rubbing at his thigh. It only served to make it sting and burn worse. “You’re learning. You’re doing fine.”

This was said conversationally. Warmly. The swift change left him stunned so that even his tears were stoppered. It didn’t ease his trembling nor his rising fear and distrust. The rubbing was easing the terrible throb, though he would certainly have a bruise and a very sore leg for some time to come.

There was another kiss. This one more languid, less brutal, and the lazy sweeps Ragnar gave the roof of his mouth seemed to steal his breath. His thigh was tender and sensitive now, and the rubbing was sparking something new and disturbing in Athelstan’s belly. To his surprise his hips twitched, jerking up off of the ground without his direction.

“ _Mmph_ ,” he grunted into Ragnar’s mouth, confused and frightened, wanting and hating that new feeling so much it made him cry again.

The man pulled away and smiled at him. “Good, Athelstan. You’re a good boy,” Ragnar said before giving him another kiss.

Athelstan returned it without thinking.     


End file.
